


Slip and Fall

by athena_crikey



Series: Reichenbach [1]
Category: Magic Kaito
Genre: Drama, Gen, Whump, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: "I came down," he says. "Let the girl go." An unforeseen disaster brings about a long-denied truth. But all Kid really wants is to get away.





	Slip and Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to bring over some ancient writing (circa 2009). Series eventually crosses over with Detective Conan, but remains predominantly MK. I'll be cleaning up and posting more over the next few weeks.

Kid’s well aware of the effect the snow falling in gentle flurries around him. Ignoring more practical concerns, it creates a beautiful scene, thick flakes drifting silently to the ground like a dove’s sparkling feathers. Aesthetics aside, it’s given him an unusual edge. Even with the police spotlights, the white of his costume – his disguise – must be difficult to pick out against the gray background. 363 days a year he stands out against the night sky. It’s unlucky for Nakamori, shouting orders down below, that tonight’s one of the two or three snowy nights of the year here in Tokyo. But then, Nakamori’s never had much luck where Kid’s concerned.

Kid’s already finished his heist, gem nestled cold and heavy against sheer silk in an inner pocket of his suit jacket. He’s hung around here long enough, given the police the obligatory chance to capture him, given the gathered crowds their thrill. Considering the weather, it’s an impressive audience; the snowy square below him is packed full of men and women bundled up against the biting cold. A human ocean, tides washing the edges closer and further to the encircling buildings, constantly shifting currents running through it as people move from one end of the square to another, some angling for a better vantage point while others curse the crowd blocking their route home. It’s a source of pride, the sheer number of people he can move with a single sheet of paper. Almost like magic. Kid grins crookedly, and sights along his line of withdrawal; he’s got plenty of homework to do.

He decided his escape route several minutes ago, looking out from the towering flagpole he’s chosen as a perch – flag long ago rescued from the freezing night. It was less a matter of conscious thought than of a subconscious leaning, experience long ago having soldered copper pathways into his mind so that without noticing he picks up on the cues which complete the appropriate circuit. He knows the safest route as surely as he knows his hands are cold, or that flame burns. 

He’s checking his equipment when he sees the dull flash of steel down below in the crowd out of the corner of his eye, the cold light reflecting for a shard of a second in his monocle. Kid’s no stranger to attempts on his life. He’s already hooking on to his lifeline, free hand on the card-gun, when he pauses. Because the pistol’s barrel isn’t pointed at him. It’s been clapped straight to the temple of the girl who happens to be standing next to the gunman. The girl who happens to be Aoko. Kid’s blood turns to ice, freezing his movements.

Down below, the world swings into a frenzy of movement. The crowd is quickly churning into a mob, those closest to the gun scrambling to escape while those in the back strain to see what’s going on. Meanwhile the police are fighting to shoulder their way against the prevailing current. 

Removed from the chaos, Kid stands unmoving against the stormy sky, breath clouding before him. He watches the crowd drain from the immediate area, watches police officers take up positions in a circle around Aoko, watches her father step forward carefully as if he were walking on ice. For whatever reason, Aoko chose a central location to watch her father’s defeat from. It’s directly in front of the flagpole, giving him a perfect view as he stands stalk-still staring down at her, a human gargoyle. The card-gun is heavy in his hand, but it’s too late to take a shot, and anyway the barrel is pointed absently at the ground. When the man – all Kid can see from his perch is a long brown coat and a dark toque – turns to face Kid directly, the thief nearly drops his tool.

With that movement, everything’s changed. From a horror he’s witnessing to a horror he’s caused.

“Kid,” shouts the man, and although the snow’s thickening now there’s little wind to obscure his voice. It’s deep and clear, and resonates through the square like the peal of a thick bronze bell. Good acoustics, thinks Kid inanely. “Kid. Come down here. Now.” He twists Aoko’s arm behind her, and she whimpers. It’s odd, really, that he hears such a tiny sound. But he does.

Kid has four possible escape routes planned from the pole-top, wires already threaded web-like to nearby buildings while he, the white-clad spider, sits in the centre – although he can’t say he particularly cares for the comparison. In addition, there’s always the glider strapped to his back. But of all possible contingencies, he didn’t plan for diving against the wind straight into the heart of the police force. The angle’s much too steep for his glider, and there’s nothing up here for him to hook his lifeline to. Even Kid can’t dive like an osprey into a cement sea without breaking his neck.

Nakamoto shouts at the gunman to let the girl go, just a flash of desperation colouring his voice. The only response is a tightening of the grip on her arm, and Aoko shakes. Kid tucks away his gun and kneels, grabs the shivering flag wire in one gloved hand, and steps off the top of the pole. The wire is thin and the twining delicate. It’s also slick with ice, and rather than rappelling down the pole he simply slows his fall. Nevertheless, he lands with perfect grace and releases the snickering wire giving no hint as to the burning in his palm. 

“I came down,” he says, calmly, eyes on the man rather than Aoko. “Let the girl go.” His poker face is in place, as always.

The reply is an amused snort. “I know better. I could take shots at you all day and never hit you once, you dirty bastard. The girl, though, I’d have a hard time missing. Don’t think I won’t shoot her – there’s plenty more hostages to burn through.” His eyes indicate the crowd, now a thin lining of the walls of the open plaza, some still trickling away through the cracks – into alleyways and buildings. “I’ll pile up as many as I have to, you can believe that. Or should I convince you?” He twists the pistol barrel against Aoko’s temple, dark metal a harsh contrast to her white skin. She gives a quiet sob and shivers in his grip, eyes closed.

“Don’t-” The word slips out without thought, pushed out over his tongue by terror. He takes a step forward and raises his hands, palms out. “Don’t,” he repeats, short and staccato, holding on to his illusion of calm by a spider’s thread. 

“Take off your hat.” There’s no explanation given, and Kid demands none. He does as he’s told, the stiff brim smooth in his gloved hand as he pulls it from his head and tosses it gently behind him. He doesn’t hear it land in the thin layer of snow. The wind’s fingers pass cool and delicate through his hair. “Now your cape.” The fabric whispers in the soft gusts, hisses as if in protest as it falls to the ground. The police are manoeuvring for position, much good it will do them. None of them would take the shot, even if it were anyone other than their commander’s daughter with the gun to her head. He pays them no mind. 

“Why don’t-” begins Kid lightly, but he’s interrupted by another harsh order.

“Your jacket.”

Kid pauses, momentarily, and the man’s finger twitches closer to the trigger. The thief narrows his eyes, and slips the button of his coat from its slit. His jacket lands with a clatter, the rods of the glider carefully hidden within knocking against the pavement, leaving him in his blue silk shirt. The red ribbon of his tie, released from its prison, flaps loose in the wind, bright and harsh as blood. Kid still has any number of tricks up his sleeve, and in his belt, and tucked up the hem of his pants, but he can’t use them. Won’t use them. Not until the situation changes. And he has no way to effect that change himself. His hands are effectively tied by the only hands which can hold him; his own.

“Turn around.” 

The words cause a murmuring among the force, and Aoko’s eyes snap open. They’re wide and terrified, huge in her pale face, and he can’t help but wonder as she stares at him whether any of her fear is for him. He could hardly hope to believe so. To his left, Nakamori is staring unblinkingly at his daughter, entire form tense as a tightly-strung wire, eyes cutting sharp as glass slivers. His gun is held ready, cocked and raised, but there’s no more chance of him firing it than there was of Kid firing his own weapon. 

Kid inclines his head courteously, the cocky smile on his lips giving no hint of his fierce concentration. His thoughts are taken up entirely with calculations, the slickness of the surface under his feet, the negligible effect of the wind, the slightly more significant effect of the snow now falling thickly, the distance to the nearest cover. The distance to his dropped card-gun, to his discarded hat with the razor sewn into the brim. 

The world seems to be holding its breath as he looks up from under his eyebrows. He raises his hands with the theatricality that defines him, and begins to turn slowly. “Since you’re going to get what you want, you might as well let the girl-” he begins, voice pitched to reassure.

“Shut up about the fucking girl already,” bellows the man, voice ringing with almost painful clarity through the plaza, and tightens his finger on the trigger.

Time seems to speed up, and several things happen simultaneously. Kid grabs his monocle and swivels, pitching it back towards the man. It catches the lamplight and sparkles as it revolves. Aoko screams and breaks away, tipping the man off-balance. The gunman, sensing a threat from Kid, whips his gun away from Aoko and squeezes off two shots even as he stumbles. Nakamori hits the two of them, aggressor and daughter, in a flying tackle. All three are knocked to the ground, where the rest of the force promptly dives onto them. And Kid, white glove raised to his chest, staggers backwards while watching red flowers bloom across his shirt. 

There’s pain, plenty of pain, more than he’s ever experienced. More than any number of early crash landings with the glider, more than having his monocle shot off and the subsequent dizzying plunge into the Osaka harbour. It’s spreading in cracked jagged lines from the red-hot centre, burning claws tearing through his soft flesh and sinking sharp teeth into his bones. But at the same time, his mind is working to catalogue the situation, as it’s been carefully trained to. 

He’s been shot in the chest, but he’s not having inordinate trouble breathing, doesn’t feel as though he’s drowning. The bullet hasn’t hit his lungs. The pain – and the blood – are spreading fast, but they’re centred under his right collarbone. Which means his main arteries are safe, tucked away deep and secure on his left side. There’s not much room left for other thoughts, but he’s vaguely aware that policemen are cautiously closing in around him. Directly in front, Nakamori’s padding slowly forwards with his hands raised, as if approaching a wild animal. Kid’s not sure why, but there doesn’t seem to be any sound to the world. As if someone pressed the mute button and stopped every sigh, every shout, every screech. It’s eerie. 

There seems to be an awful lot of blood pouring out from between his fingers. The backs of his hands are tingling in the cold, but his palms are wet and warm as if testing bath water. For some reason, he can’t remember exactly where the subclavian artery runs.

His eyes focus abruptly, and Nakamori’s standing in front of him, has moved there apparently in the blink of an eye. He’s saying something, but there’s only the vast silence of the open tundra. Vaguely aware that something’s wrong, Kid takes a step back, and his heel strikes the raised platform of the flagpole. He falls backwards, into darkness. 

\--

There’s a mask on his face and his first thought is: oxygen mask: plane crash. He forgets the thought almost instantly. Something’s wrong, he knows that, has been holding onto that fact so long that he’s forgotten why he’s still carrying it around, much less what it means, like a package of groceries purchased but fated to hang forgotten in a bloodless hand. Blood, on his hands, red on white, the Japanese flag flying high above a snowy plaza. His feet are cold.

There’s a face watching him, and it’s not the one he wants to be there. It hangs over him like a curse, sometimes noticed and sometimes not but always there, waiting. Blurry features are twisted into a mask of worry and uncertainty and those feelings seem somehow to be leaking into him because now he’s worried and uncertain. Briefly.

\--

The first thing Kid’s really aware of is the quiet rattling of the air duct. Years ago, when rope-tricks were the most complicated thing in his inventory, he trained himself to listen for the subtle sounds, the ones which don’t want to be noticed. Obvious ones, he figured, will be picked up whether you look for them or not, so there’s no point in paying them special attention. It’s the other sounds that need that.

This is why, although he’s _aware_ of the steady beeping of a heart-rate monitor and the oddly echoing sounds of his own breathing, it’s the vent he _notices_ first. There’s a slight smell of plastic, and his throat feels somehow bruised from the inside. Apart from that, there’s a general feeling of numbness, and difficulty in putting his thoughts together, as if he’s been thickly bundled up in lightly chloroformed cotton wool. He opens his eyes and stares up at the hospital ceiling.

It’s not the first time Kid’s been in the hospital. But this is different. There’s a thick tube in his throat, tasting of plastic and taped on unevenly. His eyes won’t focus properly, so that although he’s aware that the ceiling is made up of different panels he can’t distinguish one from another. His body feels as if it’s been weighed down, as though lead bars have been strapped to his limbs and piled onto his chest. His head is supported by a pillow, though, and this props him up enough to see the two blue forms standing in the corners opposite the head of his bed. There’s a rush of adrenaline before he nails down why he’s concerned. _Police_. One of them’s speaking, although he realises it too late to make sense of the words.

Kid’s not some two-bit crook whose first reaction to the cops is to dash out of the room. He’d have been mouldering away in a prison cell long ago if he were. But still, he can’t help the instinctive flinch away from them, the desire to burrow away under layers and layers of disguises and corrupted identities until he’s only a speck of grit in the centre of a perfect pearl. He’s horribly, horribly exposed, and there’s nothing he can do to conceal himself. He’s a chameleon trapped in an ever-changing environment. Or, more accurately, trapped in one single one. There’s no crowd for him to blend in with here; the people are the sea Kaitou Kid swims in and he’s been beached good and high. Dragged out to burn under the harsh light of an interrogation lamp. 

No crowd, and that’s not even a primary concern because even if there were, he can barely lift a hand. His spine is tingling, nerves carrying a bright desperate warning. He grits his teeth against the panic he can feel gathering heavy as mercury in the pit of his stomach. The constant beeping in the background is speeding up, each sound nailing a vivid nail – danger! – deeper and deeper into his brain as his thoughts circle round and round over their own tracks trying anxiously to find an escape. They’ve chained him up, caged him in behind bars he can’t break, left him to pace and turn and bite and claw in futility. Each time he throws himself at the walls of his cage they seem to shrink in on him, air getting thinner, hotter. It’s hard to breathe, sweat’s rolling down his face, drenching him, drowning him, and his throat’s tightening on something, something in his airway, chocking him, strangling him, smothering him to a racing beat.

“Breathe, kid, breathe. You’re fine.” He hears the sounds but not the words, world fading away to a rushing sound, and he feels like he’s going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. 

After a second, the sensation passes and light filters back in. There’s a man he doesn’t know standing by the bedside wearing a lab coat and, this is the important part his survival instincts shout, holding a syringe. He knows he should feel something about that, knows part of him is telling the rest exactly _what_ , but the message seems not to have made it across an important border, because all he feels is a dull recognition of the face hovering behind the white coated man’s shoulder. Nakamori. He opens his mouth to drawl a greeting, but his tongue freezes up, all his instincts throwing in their weight to stop it. Instead, he gapes blankly for a second before shutting his mouth.

“Kid,” says Nakamori. Kid wonders if he misses his cigarettes, because the old man is looking unusually depressed. Maybe just serious, but the thief can’t imagine why the loss of his cigs would evoke that. “Do you know where you are?”

Kid takes the loosening of his tongue as a sign that he’s okay to answer this question, but when he tries there’s just that choking feeling again, and he has to half gasp to swallow, head rolling back into his pillow. All that comes out of his mouth is a garbled mumble. 

“You’re in Tokyo General hospital, kid.” There’s something different about the man’s tone, a lack of emphasis that should be there. He can’t fit the puzzle pieces together, keeps trying to jam round pegs into square holes. “You’ve been here for five days. You’re going to be fine, but you’ve got a tube in to make sure you get enough nutrients until you can eat for yourself. You lost plenty of blood.”

Kid blinks, trying to tie in blood loss with nutrients, sure that there’s a connection there somewhere, just over the next hill of his tangled thoughts. 

“I’m Dr. Akede, by the way. Helped to pull the bullet out of you and put your collarbone back together. You were pretty lucky; significant shock, blood loss and bone fragments nicking your subclavian artery. It’ll be a while before you can use the arm again, but it should heal up fine.” 

Kid finds nodding a difficult task, and instead lets his eyes drift away, aware that the conversation seems to be over. Another one’s starting, though, and his ears prick up by instinct. 

“You can stay with the kid for a few minutes, inspector, but keep it light. He’s weak and in a fragile state of health. Don’t say anything to upset him, make sure he stays calm. The drugs will help with that. It is, in fact, not entirely ethical for you to be present at all, considering that in his current frame of mind-”

“Doctor, this is the Kid we’re talking about!”

“No. This is _a_ kid we’re talking about. Judging by his growth plates he’s 16 – possibly 17 – and he’s just suffered a major injury, prolonged surgery, and is still under the threat of infection. The boy could have died, and you still have the potential to cause a major set-back to his recovery. No questioning, no bullying, and _definitely_ no threatening him. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Kid’s attention is caught by the sweep of white fabric, making his heart ache for no perceivable reason. It’s gone by the time he manages to turn his head to the door, replaced by Nakamori’s tweed. The inspector’s watching him, staring down at him, and Kid’s reminded of expressionless church statues, staring down at him. He doesn’t know where these thoughts are coming from, whose mind they’re pouring in from but they seem cold and foreign in his current state of hazy warmth. Nakamori clears his throat, the gruff sound trying to fill the room and failing.

“Do you have anyone you want us to contact?” he asks, after a minute. “Family members? Or an acco- a friend?”

Kid isn’t so out of it that he doesn’t know how to answer that, with a tiny shake of his head, eyes sloping closed for just an instant. Kuroba Kaito wants to see his mother, wants to see Aoko, maybe even Jii-san, but Kaitou Kid has no ties. 

“You’re sure? You’re a – a minor; you have the right for a guardian to be present…” Nakamori’s voice is oddly fuzzy, as though reciting from a dream he’s had often but never told anyone about. He trails off, runs out of words. 

Kid’s not listening; the tone tells him the words aren’t important. Instead, he’s trying to glue together the shredded paper chain of events that ended up with him lying in a hospital bed, and he has a bright blue scrap labelled Aoko which he can’t turn away from. It takes a minute for the memories of that cold metal flash, of the bang of a gunpowder explosion, of snow falling like feathers, to emerge like faint stars from under a thin cloud bank. 

He knows without trying that he can’t produce an intelligible sound, but Nakamori doesn’t seem to have picked up on it yet. Kid’s vain, vain as a cat, as vain as he can possibly get away with being, and it’s only the heavy weight of that sea-blue tatter in his mind that causes him to abandon his usual grace and gargle around the tube in his throat. Nakamori’s eyes widen just slightly before narrowing into an expression which lets go of very little emotion, and pulls his pad out of his breast pocket.

Kid’s almost completely ambidextrous, but that’s a result of hard, relentless, exhausting training rather than nature. He can eat, shoot and pick locks with either hand. And, of course, he can write with both; no telling when he might need to imitate a lefty. Naturally, though, he is right-handed. It is, of course, currently his right hand which is lying cold and heavy as cement under rain by his side. Of all possible activities for his off-hand, writing is the most finicky. Requires the most concentration, the most effort. Just looking at the pad and pen is exhausting. Nevertheless, he picks it up; slowly, horribly aware as he does so of the cool feel of the metal casing under his skin. His gloves are gone; he’s leaving wonderfully clear prints _right this second_. He scrapes his teeth against plastic and carefully as a craftsman produces tight, exact writing which is almost polar opposite from his own cursive scrawl. 

_The man?_ He prints.

Nakamori reads it sideways, holding the pad steady against the cotton sheets. 

“Under arrest for two counts of attempted murder, and a couple of extra charges tacked on. There’s hundreds of witnesses; no way he’ll walk.” Nakamori doesn’t say: because _I_ am one of those witnesses. But Kid reads it in his eyes, in the tone of his voice, it’s plain as the ink on the page beside the thief, when he doesn’t know what day it is. He waits, as if considering, as if trying to think of something else to ask when really it’s all he can do not to dash off in an easy hand,

_The girl?_ The girl. Not Aoko. Kid knows Aoko almost as well as Kaito, knows she’s Nakamori’s daughter, knows where she lives and what she eats and what colour panties she wears. But knowledge is suspicious. 

There’s an unaccountable pause, but when Kid looks to Nakamori he can’t make anything other than indifference out of the expression. “She’s fine. No injuries. Even a little grateful, which although you might not realise is almost a world-changing notion for her.” 

Kid slumps back into the pillows, unaware he had tensed enough to partially raise himself. With the knowledge that Aoko’s safe, that everything he could ask has been asked, he feels as though a glass wall he hadn’t noticed has shattered to allow exhaustion to floor in thick and warm as honey. He doesn’t notice Nakamori opening his mouth to continue. He doesn’t even notice the fan rumble to a halt.

\--

Kid remembers being little, although it’s like looking through a fog. He remembers a time before Kid, or at least before his affiliation with him. He remembers his dad tying him to a chair, thick rope looped heavy over his small frame, and then standing in front of him holding a big chocolate bar. Remembers the shining pink and blue of the wrapper, and the light reflecting off the silver edges to glint in his eye. He remembers his dad’s voice, or more accurately the words. When he imagines his dad’s voice these days, it’s his own modulated to a deeper pitch that rings through his ears. “Now, Kaito, if you want the chocolate, you have to get out of the ropes. If you can break out, it’s yours.” Kaito didn’t ask what would happen if he couldn’t. There was no try in the Kuroba house. Only success. No failures, only temporary set-backs on the road to victory. He believed that firmly until the age of 9. 

Of course, in the end he slipped the knots and won the chocolate, and his dad swore he’d make it impossible the next time but never did. He still remembers, though, the feeling of being tied to the chair, the weight of the bindings and the fear that maybe this time he wouldn’t be able to get out. That maybe this time he would add failure to the Kuroba dictionary. 

The feeling is the same now, lying heavy and aching in the soft hospital bed with only a few cursory layers of moulding clay and makeup between Kuroba Kaito and exposure. He’s amazed they haven’t been washed off already and doubts it’s due to sloppiness on the part of the hospital. His makeup is good, but it wouldn’t stand up to an oxygen mask and feeding tube unless care was taken to avoid smudging it.

He doesn’t remember to check the makeup until 10 minutes after waking up for the second time, which is entirely too long considering he already had at least fifteen minutes of consciousness previously to think of it. But his memories of those minutes are confused; parts have dropped out all together while others seem to be in the wrong order, edges running together like melted wax. Mostly what he remembers is Nakamori’s face, staring down at him in what seems in hindsight disturbingly like shock. 

Nakamori isn’t here this time, not yet at least, although he heard the cop in the corner calling him on a radio to inform him of Kid’s return to consciousness. No cell phones in the hospital, but to keep from waking him with the usual chatter the two men have their radios turned off; he heard the click of the dial being turned on and watched as it was switched off again. Kid stores the information away, squirrel like, against a time he may need it.

He’s not alone, though – the cops don’t count, they’re wallpaper – because the doctor has just entered. Kid’s with it enough this time to produce a more coherent evaluation than “white coat = doctor.” 

Akebe is of medium height, probably 5’ 10” although it’s hard to judge lying down, and is just slightly too thin for his frame. His hair is fashionably short and dark, although under the bright fluorescent light there’s just a hint of dullness which suggests dye. He wears frameless glasses and has a good complexion. His looks and style suggest relative youth – early thirties – but Kid suspects he’s older, nearing forty. His ears pick up the voice and accent effortlessly: pitch just a touch higher than Nakamori, a hint of an Aomori accent well sanded down.

“How are you feeling this afternoon…?” There is just a sliver of a pause which highlights Kid’s lack of a real name.

Kid tightens his throat to adopt a lower tone than his usual one, and produces only a white-noise-like scratching. He drops the attempt at disguise and replies, “Fine.” The word sounds like it was run through a meat grinder. 

“You’re well on the path to recovery,” continues the doctor, watching with careful eyes. “We took out the feeding tube last night; you should be able to eat for yourself from now on.”

Kid is aware that this is a two-fold advantage; he’s tethered to the bed by one fewer cord, and if all else fails he holds the threat of refusing meals in his hand, although it’s a damn weak card. What he thinks, though, is that his hand isn’t steady enough to use a spoon, much less chopsticks long enough to finish a meal. One indignity replacing another, one weakness on display instead of another. Not much of a trade. Except now he can speak, and that opens an entire new world of possibilities. 

“How long will I be here?” It occurs to him only now to wonder how long he’s been here already, how many days he’s spent wandering through dim, colourless dreams while pairs of policemen watched over his motionless body. His mother must be furious. Or worried out of her mind. But then, this must be news. Kaito Kid captured at last. The police must be crowing it to the high heavens. They’ve never talked about it, never mentioned it, but she must know. She _must_. He refuses to believe she could so inattentive as to not have noticed it. Aoko, though. _Aoko_ must be worried sick. She worries, after all, when he stays home with a cold, even if she shows it by coming by later to beat guilt into him. He wonders for the second time whether she has any worry to spare for Kaito Kid. As though that matters.

“That’s partially dependent on the speed of your recovery. About a week. At the outside, two. The damage was severe, but limited to a small area and didn’t affect any organs. You won’t have the use of the arm for two or three weeks, but as soon as the arterial damage heals up you’ll be fine to return to a relatively normal life. That’s normal for a highschool student, not a phantom thief,” tacks on the doctor, sharply. Kid tenses at the shift, calm easy-going tone burned off to leave behind sheer hot intensity. He has a stare which matches the voice perfectly and Kid, who’s mouthed off to some pretty high authority figures in his time, finds himself having to fight the urge to look away. Pretty damn impressive. 

All the same, Kid knows better than to get into a staring match with his doctor. Instead he casually breaks eye contact – it’s not a concession if he means to do it – and looks over the white-coated shoulder at the door. “Where’s the inspector today?”

Akede, point made, resumes exuding cool reassurance and gives a quirky smile. “Who knows? I suspect back at headquarters, filling out reports or whatever else it is police officers do to celebrate cases they consider closed.”

“You don’t consider it closed?”

“I’ve seen a few of Kaitou Kid’s heists, in person and on television. He doesn’t seem to be easily cornered.”

Kid can’t help the small warm burst of pride at that; praise from the masses is one thing, praise from a man who can make a kaitou sweat is another. But Nakamori’s absence is suspicious. He flips through the catalogue of his memories, but the past few days are mostly blank or filled in in a very shaky hand. More of a broad timeline than anything else. 

“Hey, doc? I think… did you tell the inspector how old I am?”

“I gave him an estimate, yes.”

“How did- why do you think I’m that old?”

Akede shifts into a pose Kid recognizes from school. The classic lecture pose. “Age can be judged from bones. It’s not an exact science, but it’s accurate to within a year or two, especially in kids who are still growing. You can disguise your face, your voice, your hair, but no one can disguise their bones, kid.”

“So what, you just took a peek inside me?”

“I seem to recall having a legitimate reason for ‘peeking,’” says Akede dryly, and Kid fights down a flush. Akede’s lips twitch. “And now, if you excuse me, I have other patients to visit. A nurse will be around with some food later. Eat everything you can. And remember – the less you move the sooner you’ll be able to leave. To heal quickly and properly, you need rest. Absolutely no athletics, and at this point getting out of bed qualifies as such.” His smile evens out with real sincerity. Kid, as a master of false expressions, appreciates it. 

\--

It’s two days before he can sit up on his own, and another one before his legs feel strong enough to support him farther than the door. Although the police escorts change on a regular schedule, Nakamori doesn’t show. 

He sends a letter, though, one morning with the new shift of cops, neatly printed and stamped in red. A confession, with an explanatory letter attached by a folded-down corner – no staples for the master thief. He reads it through once for information, then again to buy time while considering whether he has any reason to try to keep the paper. The writing itself has no value to him; it’s a simple rant by an enraged Yakuza member whose boss lost a precious stone to the Kaitou Kid.

Kid wonders about sneaking a letter of his own out in his dirty dishes, but even if he could write it without being noticed the chances of someone picking up something out of the garbage and delivering it to the address written on it are too slim to make the idea anything more than laughable. Not that he’s been laughing much lately. Nakamori’s absence is eating at him. He always figured if the inspector ever got him in his grasp he’d sit over him as jealously as a broody hen. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and he hates that more than very nearly anything else.

\--

Kid has everything planned out. Everything except the first step: getting the cops out of the room. They’ve been very careful about what they bring in; each doctor, nurse and officer must check all his or her possessions before entering and leaving. Even his food has been mild in every form. Too cool to burn, too hot to freeze, too wet to choke, too dry to drown. Nothing that has any reactive properties. If there were a dish which included vinegar and baking soda, they would have refused him it. They also keep a meticulous count of what he’s given; if a spoon, a chopstick, a straw goes missing they search him until it turns up, which is irritating and embarrassing. He’s given up on thieving, for the moment, if only to retain some dignity. 

If he can’t get rid of the cops, he’ll have to scrap the plan and wait for a new one to come up. It’s not that he doubts he can do it, but he’s no where near top form and he has absolutely no tools other than his voice and whatever he can palm on the way out. Not a plan he has a lot of confidence in. 

And, worryingly, Nakamori’s still avoiding him. For some reason, it preys on his mind more than any other aspect of his situation. 

\--

Kid’s reciting poetry in his head when Nakamori finally appears, revising for the recitation test he would have had yesterday if this whole catastrophe had never taken place. It’s ironic, really, Kaitou Kid caught in the grips of the police and worrying about a missed Japanese class. He chose some of Matsuo Bashou’s most famous poems specifically to give him more time to spend planning heists, but despite their fame the only one he can seem to remember is the one which matches his situation. _Now then, let's go out / to enjoy the snow... until / I slip and fall!_

He snorts and is giving it up for a lost cause when the door rumbles in its tracks. Kid’s eyes sharpen. It’s early evening, winter sky dark beyond the long windows’ curtains. Akede isn’t scheduled to come by until the night shift begins. Dinner was half an hour ago, plates already counted and removed. The nurses won’t be around again for another two hours, and the cops don’t trade off until 2am. 

His nose tells him it’s Nakamori before anything else. The hospital’s air is dry and smells of alcohol and disinfectant, sharp burning scents. Nakamori is preceded by the thick smoky scent of his cigarettes, the only one of Kid’s many visitors who smokes so heavily. In comparison to the sterile hospital air it’s fresh and sweet: it tastes of freedom. The thief is ready for Nakamori’s old standby, the angry outburst, or his second favourite, the smug taunting. He is shocked by what he sees in their place.

The inspector, it seems to Kid, has aged rapidly since the last time he saw him. Years have settled on his shoulders like thick snow, so that they droop now where they were straight and strong before. His face has aged as well, less by gaining wrinkles or loose skin than by losing some of its former indomitable energy. Nakamori’s eyes are like dull slate, his face hard as sandstone, as he settles down into the single chair at Kid’s bedside. He looks, in fact, uniquely like someone just come from a funeral. Kid is very aware that this is not good. He’s also very aware that he currently still has no escape route.

Nakamori clears his throat gruffly, staring out the shaded windows. “Can I get anything for you? Contact anyone.”

“No, I’m good,” says Kid cautiously, slipping out clumsily over what seems like thin ice. He’s seen Nakamori in plenty of moods, irrational anger being the most common but by no means the only one. He’s never seen the man like this, though. He’s lost in unfamiliar terrain without a map; has no idea who he is supposed to be right now. Self-preservation suggests not being Kaitou Kid, but an even deeper one knows he can’t be Kuroba Kaito. Kid has more faces than he has tricks up his sleeve; different people, different mannerisms, different attitudes, one for every occasion. The one Nakamori seems to be pulling out of him now, a rabbit from under a hat, is honesty, and that’s damn dangerous. 

Simple necessities out of the way, Nakamori loosens and loses some assurance. Behind him, one of the officers chokes back a cough. The inspector takes the escape route offered and swivels, straightening. Both officers snap to attention. “You two, get out of here. Go get a coffee, or something.” He waves a disgruntled hand. The pair consider arguing, and then visibly think the better of it and march out. Kid hears them stop right outside the door to check their handcuffs, books, pens, weapons. He half regrets not snatching something, just for the fun of it. Especially when Nakamori turns back, slow and uneven, back bowed. Kid thinks uncomfortably: like an old man. 

He meets Kid’s eyes now, and Kid realises as he never has before that the man has Aoko’s eyes, or more probably that she has his. There’s a difference in hue, his slate gray where hers are closer to pewter-blue, but Aoko’s strength of mind is there. The strength to stand against every last person on the planet in defence of his – or her – ideas. The strength to fight a losing war, a rear-guard action, while knowing it for what it is. The strength to hold morals above feasibilities. And Kid realises in a second flash, that they are very alike, the Nakamoris and the Kurobas. Two faces of the same coin, both burning with the need and the strength to fight for beliefs in the face of all adversity. As if he needed another reason to feel for the man. 

“You’re not him, are you?” Nakamori’s voice is hard and empty as the Gobi desert, all stone and drought. There is no give there, no emotion, no hints to read. Dead as rock. Kid forces himself to ignore the tone.

“Who?”

“Kaitou Kid?”

Kid smiles, bright and innocent and, underneath, empty. “ _Kaitou Kid?_ Of course not! How could I be-”

“I know you’re Kaitou Kid.” Nakamori cuts him off humourlessly. “I meant the original one. The Kaitou Kid I chased when I was twenty, twenty years ago.”

Kid’s pretences drain away, water escaping into cracks, leaving him alone in the biting wind of Nakamori’s question. 

“The doctor said you were a teenager. Seventeen, eighteen. Maybe even sixteen. Maybe younger. That kid said so too, the stuck up one living in England. Said your hair proved you were a teenager. I didn’t believe it. I’d been chasing you for 20 years, no way you were some snot-nosed brat. Except, that’s how you act.”

“Hey…”

“And… that’s how you look. Doctors say you’re wearing some makeup, but no mask. There’s no makeup good enough to make a forty year-old look that young. Even if there were… you sleep like a kid.”

Kid starts sweating at this point, because although having policemen watching him while he’s awake is unnerving, knowing that they’re watching him while he’s sleeping is just downright creepy, and he’s been pointedly avoiding that knowledge up until now. Nakamori seems to be unaware of this.

“So. You’re not him, are you?”

Kid has a clever reply already on stage, and several back-ups waiting in the wings. But… that’s not the card Nakamori’s attitude is telling him to play. And, it’s not the one he wants to play, either. Not to the old man. Not this time. Because, however much it stings, he’s vaguely aware of one other thing. That after his own father, when he thinks of a dad Nakamori’s the first man who comes to mind. So he swallows his wit, and answers in a simple tone.

“No.”

“Then, the real Kaitou Kid? The first one?”

“Is dead. Died a long time ago.” Sometimes, not so often these days, it still seems like yesterday. He still has dreams of his father, alive and living with him and his mom. The three of them together, a happy family, going to the theatre or eating sukiyaki together or whatever it is happy families do. The dreams sting like alcohol in a wound. 

Nakamori looks down and sighs, a dry sound like wind whispering through a dusty cavern. When he speaks, it’s to his hands folded on the bedside. “Eight years ago. He didn’t disappear. I never wanted to believe that. I _refused_ to believe that.”

“I know,” says Kid quietly. He knows now what’s been bothering Nakamori for the past week, knows why he was staring down at him like he was a ghost. Knows why he suddenly seems to be an old man. He’s grieving, for the man Kaitou Kid is not. Sorrowing for a death he refused for years to accept. Kid wonders if that’s what he’s been doing all week, sitting alone in his office chain smoking and drinking to lost… what? They were never friends. Nakamori didn’t even know his dad’s name. And, at the same time, they were tied together by something much stronger than most friendships. 

He wonders if Nakamori will tell anyone. 

“Who killed him?” Nakamori’s voice shifts, gathering strength and intensity; rocks rumbling in preparation for a slide. 

The question catches Kid offguard, and that’s unusual. But he’s always been quick on his feet. “Why do you assume he was murdered? Maybe he was sick. Maybe it was an accident.”

“Was it?” Nakamori looks up, and there is no question in his eyes.

“No. No, it wasn’t.” It’s a thought he’s hardly ever voiced aloud, even if it’s run on the tracks of his mind often enough to have sunken deep ruts in his thoughts. Somehow it hurts more, aloud. “But I don’t know who did it.” Not names, at least. Not how they did it. He will, someday. He swore it to a workshop packed full of tools and costumes and completely devoid of life. Someday. But not yet. 

“Why are you here? It made sense, as much sense as he ever made, for him to pick up the mantle again. But why you? A dead man’s ghost, looking for what?”

“I couldn’t just be in it for kicks? It’s fun, you know, being a kaitou. I walk on the sky, fly with the birds, juggle with gems worth more than most people will make in their whole lives. Outsmarting you and the rest of the cops, that’s plenty of fun too.” Kid overshoots defensive and lands right in antagonising. He’s never been good with not bragging, always been a bit slow to rein in his running mouth, and the ghost comment strummed some deep chord and distracted what control he has. The inspector doesn’t seem offended, though. Maybe his mind has shifted to adjust to conversing with a teenager. Maybe he doesn’t see Kid as looking down at him anymore. Maybe now he’s just some kid shooting off his mouth.

“With the threat of life in jail hanging over your head?”

“Sure. Some people like playing with fire.” 

“And that’s what you want me to believe? You give up most of your free time, your sleep, probably your grades, to be a thief? Every time running the risk of prison, or even death? This isn’t the first time someone’s taken a shot at you. And plenty of those tricks of yours are one mistake away from the grave.” 

Kid shrugs, and now a slip of a mask falls over his eyes. “Inspector, you can believe what you want. Why ever I’m doing this, I can tell you I’m _not_ doing it for anyone’s approval. Frankly, I don’t care what anyone thinks about me.” How could he? There’s only one person who’s opinion he cares about, and she would hate him if she knew he was Kaitou Kid. Would hate him as fiercely as she already hates the Kid. He tries not to think about it, because there’s just no way he can give in, but a part of him wonders if he hasn’t become Those Men for Aoko. The one who took, who even now is taking, her father away from her. He’s become for her what he’s hunting himself. An ouroboros eating his own tail, leaving his own path of destruction even as he tries to clean up another one. How could he expect she would worry about him? He would be lucky if she wasn’t disappointed he didn’t die.

“But you send out letters to the media, making sure your fans come to watch.” Nakamori isn’t trying to break his argument. He’s trying to draw out information or maybe, Kid thinks, just trying to get to know him. To know the Kid. It’s laughable. Kid doesn’t exist. He’s a mask, a shadow, a flash of light and smoke. A white hat and cloak and monocle, and, of course, a smile. A ghost.

“Want and need aren’t the same thing, even if they overlap sometimes.” He can’t explain himself further, although Nakamori must know what he means. Kid likes crowds, but he invites them because he _needs_ them to swim through and for no other reason. 

“What do you want?” The same question again, the inspector’s eyes watching him closely now. An inspector’s eyes but also, a father’s. Kid wonders if he’s thinking of Aoko, wondering if this boy in front of him is at all the same as his daughter. Wondering if it’s possible to understand the Kid. But that’s vanity on Kid’s part. 

“I can’t tell you. Inspector, I’ve already said far more than I should have. But… in exchange for your kind treatment, I will tell you: Kaitou Kid has a goal. And when he’s achieved it, he’ll disappear. For good. So if you want to catch him, you’d better hurry up.” Kid has no illusions about who told the doctors not to wash his face, not to run his prints. 

“Seems to me I _have_ caught him,” says the inspector, but there’s no pride there, only a gentle rebuke. 

Kid shrugs with a perfectly easy smile. “You of all people know seems doesn’t mean anything around a kaitou.” 

Nakamori pauses, eyebrows tightening. “I know,” he began slowly, “that a week ago a kaitou saved a girl in a crowd. Saved my daughter’s life, at the risk of his own. And that even she, who hates him more than anyone else, wanted to come to thank him.”

Kid feels his breath catch, feels his poker face stretch to the extreme. “She doesn’t have to thank me. She doesn’t owe me anything. I probably owe her more than I can give.”

“A life is a pretty big gift.” 

Kid says nothing. Lack of a father is a pretty big hole. 

“And, you know, it’s not only her that receives it. Because of you, I still have my daughter. Because of you, her friends still have her. And I’m willing to bet, somewhere out there there’s someone, maybe lots of someones, who’d miss you if you were gone. Maybe even my daughter. Maybe … maybe even me. So you’d better take care of yourself, kid. You owe me that.” 

“Owe you for…” Kid trails off as Nakamori reaches in his pocket to fumble for something.

“Consider this,” he holds up something small and circular which shines dully in the fluorescent light, “a present. To an old ghost.” Before Kid can slip in another question he stands, chair scraping backwards on the linoleum. Without another word, he turns and walks out, closing the door behind him. Kid can’t help but notice as he closes the door that the inspector’s shoulders are straight now, snow thrown off. Then comes the thump of the door hitting the frame, the sound echoing in the silent room. Behind him on the chair is a 100 yen coin.

Kid stares, slack jawed, but only for a split second. His mind already knows what the silence means, and he slips stiffly out of the bed with only a soft rustle of fabric. His bare feet move with a bare quiet patter across the cold floor, aching shoulder held tense, eyes dark. In a couple of heartbeats he’s safe in the ventilation shaft, leaving the room empty behind him. 

He calls his mother from a payphone two storeys up, stomach twisting at the tears in her voice, all the while wondering if anything’s changed. Somehow, he thinks not. Nakamori’s settled whatever favours he owed, laid his ghosts to rest. Now it’s just the Inspector and Kaitou Kid. A cycle they both know well; day following night, the sun chasing the moon. And maybe, just maybe someday, waiting at the end of it all, Aoko with a smile for Kuroba Kaito and the mask he wears.

END


End file.
